


Every Breath You Take

by MindNoise



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12582584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindNoise/pseuds/MindNoise
Summary: scary night at Tommy's*WARNING - this is a horror fic - stalking, home invasion, and a physical attack (just in case any of these is a sensitive subject)





	Every Breath You Take

**Author's Note:**

> So I heard this song last night (copy/paste link) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DFgAbn0Mbog and today is Halloween and I'm prepping for Nanowrimo tomorrow by word sprinting today --- this came out. It's darker than what I normally write for yall. Hope you enjoy!

The scrape at the window makes Tommy jump. Then he laughs, realizing the noise was from the tree branch outside. He turns back to the TV and his MASH marathon.

When the scrape comes again, he ignores it. When it lingers, dragging from the bottom of the window screen to the middle, his alarm registers. He stares at the blinds covering the window as the noise drags back down the screen, menace grinding its way into his home, into his mind. He gets up and approaches the window with caution. He stays to the side so that whoever is out there won’t see his shadow. He doesn’t want it known that he’s aware. He reaches out to the blinds. His heart thumps in anticipation at what he might see behind them. His finger hooks a slat and moves it carefully. When he doesn’t see a ghoulish face pressed up to the window, he pulls the blinds away from the window.

Nothing.

His heart calms, he breathes deep, feeling braver. He sees no one and concludes it was just a branch on the tree next to the window. He looks the tree over, giving it a warning stare, and lets the blinds fall back into place. He returns to his seat in front of the TV.

When the sound comes again, he’s not scared. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He needs to cut the branch, obviously. The sound becomes harder. Too hard to be a tree branch. He sits up, looking at the blinds again. He mutes the TV, listening. He doesn’t hear anything else, but the unease will not leave. The following sound is against the glass itself, as though something were cutting it. He gets up and goes to the window again, not bothering to hide his shadow. He grabs the drawstring and yanks, the slats folding and shooting upward in a rush. There’s a ragged hole in the screen. The patch cut hangs down to the window sill in a flap. The cut in the glass is long and deep and looks like broken crystal in the light. Startled, Tommy lets go of the drawstring, bringing the blinds crashing down, covering the window again.  

He backs up, looking around him. That was not caused by a tree. Adrenaline causes him to blank on what he should do next. Police. He should call the police. He reaches for his phone and finds the battery indicator in the red, the phone shutting off when he tries to dial. He meant to plug it in when he got home, then he was distracted and forgot. He certainly didn’t think he’d need to call 911.

Movement outside makes him jump. He holds his breath. The leaves on the ground rustle and crunch with the distinct sound of footsteps. They move along the outside wall, away from the window and stop just outside the front door. He swallows. He stares at the lock, making sure it’s engaged. The steps move past the door. His head follows as they shuffle through the leaves, slow and deliberate. As they near the end of the house, he quickly tip-toes to another window and peers out. He sees the shadow of a human disappear around the corner. His heart beat rises and he begins to sweat. He can’t rationalize the noise as a tree; it’s a person. And he is not safe.

There’s a thud at the back of the house. He jumps, then holds himself still. His heart beat skyrockets and he feels lightheaded. He moves quietly to the back of the house. It’s dark, the only light coming from the living room where the TV is still on, but silent. He’s still clutching his phone. He hears rustling coming from a back room. He stands outside the door of the room, looking in. He stares at the window, grateful for curtains and blinds. It’s his only advantage. Whoever it is can’t see inside, can’t see him. He holds still.

It occurs to him that he should find his phone charger. The phone will work regardless of the dead battery if it’s plugged in. He runs as quietly as he can to his room. He feels around on the table. The charger is not there. Of course it isn’t.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters.

He has to turn on the light. Wincing he turns it on, and looks under the table, under the bed, all around the floor while he’s crouched down there. He doesn’t see it anywhere. He doesn’t remember moving it this morning when he unplugged his phone. It’s possible, but not likely. So, where is it? To his horror, it crosses his mind that whoever is outside may’ve been inside at some point and taken his charger. Which means, this is planned.

 When the lights go out, he bites his lip to keep from crying out in surprise. He curses himself for buying a 1940’s house that still has the fuse box on the outside. Why didn’t he spend the money and have that changed? He tries not to breath heavily lest he be heard outside. Three slow knocks on his bedroom window cause him to nearly swallow his tongue. Fear slides through him turning his insides to liquid. His instinct is to run from the house. It doesn’t matter to where, just move, get out.

He’s halfway down the hall when a thought makes him go cold – Whoever is out there is waiting. Blindly running outside will put Tommy in more danger. He freezes and his eyes widen in the dark. He has no idea what to do, where to go.

His hand cramps but he can’t release his tight grip on his phone. It’s useless to him, but he can’t let it go. It’s his only shield. He could use some other kind of weapon, though. He makes his way to the kitchen, praying he doesn’t fall, praying nothing else happens outside. He feels the drawer handles, counting until he gets to the one where he keeps the butcher knife. He never uses it. You don’t need a huge ass butcher knife to make tacos. It was a housewarming gift - apparently all kitchens need one of these - and he threw it in the drawer without another thought.  

He pulls the drawer open, cringing at the clatter the utensils inside make. He slides his hands over them, finding the butcher knife and pulling it out. He leaves the drawer open. Armed with a knife in one hand and his dead cell phone in the other, he feels a little more in control. But not really.

His hearing is on hyperalert, so much so that his own breathing startles him. He waits. He looks around in the dark, the silence heavy with danger. He tries to discern where the prowler is now. Should he return to his room? Is the prowler currently breaking in through a window? No, he’d hear that. He thinks. Is he at the back door? Possibly picking the lock or prying the door open? Would he hear that? A scratch at a window causes him to whimper. It could be a tree branch; it could be the prowler. Please let it be a tree branch.

An arm closes around his neck, a body presses against his back. The arm squeezes, cutting off his air. His body thrashes as the passageway to his lungs is sealed off. He drops his phone and the knife as he instinctively grabs the arm around him. His head and face throb with the exertion of trying to breathe. He kicks his feet but panic prevents him from aiming and hitting his target. Although the room is dark, he can sense his vision going fuzzy. He’s blacking out. He can’t let that happen.

He thrusts his hips backwards and into his assailant. The movement throws them both off balance and the assailant loosens his grip. Tommy slips his head under the arm around his neck. He drops to the floor, crawling away and feeling for the knife. He moves clumsily as hands grab at his ankles. His fingers touch the tip of the knife handle and he grabs it, swinging it backwards. He feels it connect and hears a hiss of breath as the blade cuts his attacker. Gasping, he gets his footing and turns, ready to fight.

No one is in the kitchen that he can see or sense. He listens. He doesn’t hear anything – no movement, no breathing, nothing. Did the attacker leave? He didn’t hear anyone leave, which means the attacker could still be in the house. Deciding against defending his home, Tommy runs to the front door.   

When he flings the door open, he sees a tall shadow on his front porch.

“Tommy,” it says.

He barely hears it as he shrieks and raises the knife in self-defense and charges.

“What the hell?” the shadow says. “Tommy!”

He collides with Adam who puts his arms out to fend him off. His hand blocks Tommy’s raised arm.

“Stop!” Adam says.

“Adam,” he says, nearly collapsing in relief. He drops the knife and it clatters on the walkway.

“Yeah, who did you think I was?” Adam asks. “What the fuck is this?”

“Oh fuck, am I glad to see you,” Tommy says.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “You look scared shitless.”

Tommy takes deep breaths, safe now that another person is here, a friend. Safety in numbers. He tells Adam what happened, even shows him the torn window screen. Adam runs his fingers over the cut in the glass.

“Wow,” he says. “We should call the police.”

Tommy nods. He rubs his neck. His throat hurts.

“My phone is dead and the power is out,” Tommy says. “Fucker messed with the fuse box.”

“That’s on the outside of the house, right?” Adam asks.

“Yeah,” Tommy says.

Adam walks around the corner of the house. Tommy follows. Adam pulls open the door on the metal fuse box and uses the light from his phone to see inside. He reaches in and twists a fuse and Tommy’s lights come on.

“Just unscrewed the fuse,” Adam says. He closes the door and looks at Tommy.

Tommy stares at him.

How did Adam know where the fuse box was located? How did he know which fuse was loose? And isn’t it a coincidence that Adam showed up at just the right moment when Tommy was running in fear.

“Just happened by my house?” Tommy asks.

“I wanted to check on you,” Adam says.

“The house was dark,” Tommy says. “I could’ve been asleep.”

“But you weren’t,” Adam says.

Adam gives him a smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He puts his arm around Tommy and pulls close, holding him tight. Too tight.

“Let’s go inside,” Adam says.

He leads Tommy back into the house. Tommy notices a long scratch on Adam’s hand. The thin line of blood is fresh.

Adam locks the door.


End file.
